


The Oath Thou Doth Speak in the Dark

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Never Far from the Queen [11]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-15 20:38:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12328461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: She smirks. “I’ve often wondered what you were thinking of, writing this prayer. Not very holy thoughts, no?”“Not holy, my Queen?” he whispers, daring to touch her face. “How so, when you are the first among the gods?”





	The Oath Thou Doth Speak in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> (Many thanks to Ranna Dylin for beta-reading!)

Eothas is no more, and the soul spindles all across the Dyrwood are set in motion. A work well done, fruits of years of effort ready for the harvest, the last stages of scheming which had begun months ago in Readceras. Yes, a work well done. Thaos acknowledges it, but he does not feel satisfaction. There is a moment of recognition, like that of a dedicated scholar ticking another point off the list, but little more. Only exhaustion that leaves him empty inside – a deep dark chamber, a ruined temple, a crumbling tomb. Dust and wind and broken stone.

He stopped counting the bodies left in his way long ago. Enemies, random people that happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Apprentices. Lovers. There had been a point, just before that first sacrifice – ah, what beautiful names can be found for murder – when he had hesitated, closed his eyes... And there, under his eyelids, he had found the image of a chamber full of people and then full of ashes, over and over again. He can still see it sometimes when he closes his eyes. Everything else always seems so insignificant in comparison.

Thaos does what he must to preserve order and give people hope, but has very little hope left for himself. Not the kind of hope that gives kith wings and enables them to soar above their vices, to be more than they thought they ever could. Just the hope of a weary pilgrim wishing to see the end of his path, whatever that should be. Woedica made him a promise, and he hopes she will regain her throne soon – still many lives from now, but perhaps just a fraction of what he has been through so far – and that his Queen will keep her word and take his soul.

Candle flames flicker a moment before Thaos senses a presence behind him. He turns and immediately goes down onto one knee, bowing his head. It has been a long time since his Queen last visited him to speak face to face, not just as a voice from a statue or a quiet whisper right into his soul, but he would always recognise her.

Woedica puts her slender hand on his head, fingers threading through his hair – both a blessing and a gesture of possession. Reminding him that ultimately, she is the one in power. That he is hers, now and until the end of days, until she takes his soul or it crumbles into dust.

“Ah, I see you remember,” Woedica says, amusement and satisfaction clearly audible in her tone. “Remember thine oath,” she quotes with a lilt; her words are usually curt and harsh, and it is easy to forget how melodious her voice can be when she wants to make it so. “Remember thy queen.” Her fingers stroke his hair, slide down his cheek. “You never forget.” From her, it is the highest praise. “I value loyalty, Thaos.” The way she whispers his name, almost softly, almost like a caress – it is his reward.

To someone else, it might have meant little, but he savours it. He has done much more to be given much less in return.

“Is that reproach I hear in your thoughts, my favourite?” Woedica asks. Her hand withdraws. “Ah, rise. A moderate, healthy amount of subservience is enough.”

“It’s just exhaustion, my lady,” Thaos says, getting up. “It will pass.” Not really, not completely; it never does. But enough that he will be able to continue his work.

He looks at her, knowing her words have been a permission for that, too. The last few times she has talked to him, she has always robed herself in the Strangler’s form, one feared by so many kith; she is wearing it now as well. Thaos is not afraid; he merely wishes he could look upon his Queen’s real face. But he has no right to ask, much less to demand it.

Woedica holds his gaze, thoughtful. After a while, a small smile blooms on her lips. She raises both hands to her chin and then takes the Strangler’s wrinkled face off like a mask. Beneath, she is herself, one cheek and side of her neck marred by scars, but the other side intact, still his beautiful Queen. Her hair has grown back, falling over her shoulders like a waterfall. For a moment, Thaos imagines her clad in nothing but the mantle of golden and copper strands, and his breath catches.

Her eyebrows arch. “Blasphemy?” she asks, a corner of her lips curling up slightly as she takes in his expression.

“Worship, my Queen,” Thaos answers quietly.

Woedica laughs, like he has never heard her laugh before, like a young woman exceptionally proud of her little jest. Her laughter has always been youthful, always pleasant, all silvery bells and adra chimes, but this time it is a little louder, and it fills the chamber and the empty places in his soul. And then she lifts her hands again, and as she lowers them her robe and jewellery dissolve, melt away, and she is standing before him clad in nothing but the mantle of her hair, haughty and imperious as always, her beauty so striking he cannot breathe.

Thaos stares at her, not quite believing his luck, admiring her, trying to commit each detail to memory – the way light gleams on each lock of hair, each glimpse of her pale skin, her confident smile, the look of amusement in her eyes. His feelings have always amused her greatly; he knows, he accepts that. As long as he can see her like this, he will accept everything.

And then he blinks, and suddenly she is there, right in front of him, her body pressed lightly against his and her fingers brushing up his cheek to tangle in his hair. Her hold is firm, but gentler than usual, and so is her hand over his heart, even if it is still just as possessive as always.

“You worship me like none other,” Woedica murmurs, and each word is heat against his mouth. “It’s too early for rest.” Her hand moves up his chest and neck. “But you did well, and certainly deserve a... blessing.” That laughter again, resonating within his soul.

This desire, this... yearning – this is the most foolish thing in his every life. But he cannot help it. Because whenever he thinks he can bear his burden no longer, that what he does goes beyond what he had sworn, she returns, in a dream or vision, or sometimes even like this, in flesh, and binds him to her all over again.

Her lips part slightly and press against his softly; barely even a kiss. Enough to make him forget sense and reason; it has been too many lives since the last time.

“She hears the oath thou doth speak at her altar,” he mutters, entranced.

Woedica laughs; mirth, silver, adra, magic. “Perhaps we will come to that later.” Still laughing, she wraps both arms around his neck and pulls his head down, then looks deeply into his eyes, and suddenly laughter subsides into a smile. “You have earned your blessing, my favourite. But I would still like to hear you... pray.”

She kisses him, without hurry and with just a hint of teeth, more softly than she usually does. For once, she is not demanding, just taking what he offers, but more graciously. He must have done well indeed.

“Yes, you did,” Woedica answers his thoughts. “Just a few more years, and it will be over.”

Thaos leans in, breathes in her scent; iron and adra and ice. “Her justice will not be restrained,” he says, pressing a fervent kiss to her palm. “The fires of justice will never be quenched.”

She smirks. “I’ve often wondered what you were thinking of, writing this prayer. Not very holy thoughts, no?”

“Not holy, my Queen?” he whispers, daring to touch her face. “How so, when you are the first among the gods?”

Woedica laughs again. She is still laughing when he kisses her ardently. This is the only way he can truly worship her – as his Queen, as his lady, as the woman of his life. All his lives. She kisses him back passionately, teasingly. Lets him kiss her again after she pulls away, unusually patient.

“Just don’t try my patience too much, Thaos.” She grasps a handful of his robes and pulls him along as she steps back towards the bed.

“Remember thy place,” he quotes, following her obediently; just a few steps, but enough for his robe to end up on the floor. “I have not forgotten.” He sits down when her hands press onto his shoulders, and then she is in his lap, arms around his neck. “She hears the oath thou doth speak in the dark,” he whispers against her throat, then lets her push him down onto the sheets.

“Always, Thaos,” Woedica mutters into his ear, leaning over him. “Your every word, every thought. I always watch what is mine.” She guides his hands to her hips, but does not stop him when he reaches up to touch her hair. “There were other words before, my favourite. Ones you had written, too.” Her lips brush down his neck. “I want you to speak them.”

He does, quotes her all the hymns she wishes. And she rewards him by almost allowing him to love her, for once – almost, because she is his Queen and will never let him have everything he yearns for – and not just accepting whatever she wants to give. And then, when he drowns and there is nothing but adra and brightness, she lets him kiss her, and he knows this is Woedica’s last blessing. That when she comes to him next time, it will be to take his soul, not to bestow her favour upon him. No, next time she will bless him with something he desires even more – peace, oblivion; absolution.


End file.
